Kill Shot
by aliceann
Summary: "In the wrong hands, Neal Caffrey is a very dangerous man. Like I said, how well do you know Neal Caffrey?" A routine case goes horribly wrong and Neal/Peter must come to terms with the consequences. T for language, violence, whump.
1. Chapter 1

Kill Shot

He didn't have the shot.

"Dammit! Jones! Do you have the shot?"

"Peter, he's blocking me with her body."

The first two minutes of a hostage situation determines a victims chances. After that the chances get smaller and the danger to the victim increases. It was two minutes exactly since agent Berrigan had been taken hostage. According to FBI protocol, any early chance of resolution was gone. How had this turned so wrong? He was going over the room inch by inch. There was no way out.

"Take it easy, we can work this out," Peter tried to remain calm as he went through the protocol in his head and moved toward the man holding his partner.

The first blow caught her by surprise. It sent her silver Smith and Wesson skittering across the floor until it hit the far wall. The second blow was a vicious right to the face. She felt the bones in her nose shatter, blood was pouring down her throat.

"I'm okay, Peter" she breathed raggedly through the blood clotting in her nose.

"Bitch is right," the man said "but not for long if you take another step. Put the gun down."

"I can't do that. Don't make this any worse than it already is. There's no way out."

The man's left arm was around her neck squeezing so tightly, her vision was going in and out. With his right, he drew the razor sharp blade across her chest, slicing through the buttons of her shirt. He pressed down. A red snake of blood welled up from the cut, as Diana's body jerked and her eyes jammed wide in panic. The blade kept moving, leaving a crimson trail until the tip came to rest on her exposed breast.

"You sick son of a bitch!" Peter hissed. "What do you want?"

"I want you to look at me."

"What?"

"Look at me and your little girlfriend here. What do you see? I'll tell you, a man with nothing to lose."

He put the gun down.

For the first time he was glad to be left behind in the van. He had always looked forward not backwards, concentrating on what was ahead. It had been hard the last few months since Elizabeth was taken. He missed the life he lived back then. Peter was trying, everyone was trying, but the easy camaraderie no longer existed. It all felt forced and likely to shatter at any moment. He couldn't breathe sometimes. Being cooped up with Peter, Jones and Diana for four hours had taken all of his considerable conning skills, he felt depleted and exhausted. But, when didn't he these days.

He laid the groundwork for the current case, set up the money trail, the meet; all had gone according to plan. Jones and Diana were the marks; Peter was there to wrap things up. Another routine sting, another notch in Peter's impressive record.

It was taking longer than it should. They should have been back by now. His old nemesis claustrophobia was taking hold; he could feel the sweat forming. He slid the van door open and stepped into the cool night air. As he made his way down the alley to the warehouse, something felt wrong. He took a cautious step inside. He saw Jones first, with his weapon drawn. Then Peter and then the man holding Diana.

He was six feet or more. His eyes were cold and empty. This wasn't the man he had met. Diana's head was bowed, slightly obscuring her face. But the blood soaking her shirt was not. It sickened him. The man had his arm around her neck, pulling with such force her feet were barely touching the ground. He was pressing the huge knife against her flesh. He was casual and practiced. He had cut people before. He liked hurting people. Neal's blood ran cold. He swallowed back a jet of bile tinged saliva and slipped farther inside.

He pressed back against the wall, into the dark. A dingy light fixture overhead cast shadows on the far wall. Then he saw it, the glint of Diana's Smith and Wesson. He dropped to his knees and crept until he reached the gun. Slowly breathing in and out, he quieted his racing heart, and with two fingers silently lifted the weapon.

"OK, let's talk. I did what you asked. You need leverage, a hostage. She's only going to slow you down, take me." Peter tried to bargain.

The man laughed.

"So, I hand you the girl, and your friend there puts a bullet in me. Or we make it outside to the waiting arms of the cops. I promise it will be painful for your girlfriend."

"Look ..."

"Shut up."

"I can guarantee..."

"I said SHUT THE FUCK UP! I am not going back. End of the line."

The broad blade glinted in the dim light as he raised it over Diana's chest.

"Wait!" Peter cried.

The man's face was contorted with hatred. Neal had seen that expression in prison more times than he cared to remember. There was nothing there worth trying to negotiate. He was going to kill her. The shot was next to impossible from his position on the floor. He had only one chance, Diana had only one chance. He aimed high, knowing that gravity would take the bullet right to where he wanted it. His finger tightened on the trigger, he took the shot.

The shot went through the top of the man's head. He went down arms and legs flailing, the knife and the remains of his head thumping against the stained concrete floor, blood splattering down like rain. Neal rested his shoulders against the wall for a moment. She was safe.

For a second Peter went blank with surprise, and then rushed to Diana as she crumpled to the floor. Jones was by his side, as he called for an ambulance and back up.

"Nice shot."

"It wasn't me, Peter."

"What? Then..."

He looked up to see Neal standing over the man, the gun in his hand hanging limply by his side.

"Is she going to be alright, Peter?" he said with an eerie calm.

Jones walked over to Neal, took the gun from him and squeezed his shoulder. What happened next was something of a blur, as the paramedics, NYPD and FBI poured into the warehouse.

Neal waited in the stillness of Diana's hospital room. Closed his eyes, then opened them again. Trying to blink back memories he thought he'd left behind. Amnesia had a shelf life. She was still beautiful, despite the bruising and swelling. Plastic surgery was scheduled for later to repair her broken nose. Christie said she would look good as new, might be home in a day or two.

She was trying to wake, the muscles in her cheek twitched slightly. Her mouth was open, trying to form words against the pain killers and sedatives coursing through her bloodstream. Her eyes fluttered open briefly.

"Neal?" her hand reached out to him.

He breathed hard and took a step back from her bed, from her touch; and waited for the drugs to claim her again. A long forgotten ache settled in his chest. He felt lost. He turned away and made to step out of the room only to find Peter standing there, watching him. He seemed strained and ten years older.

"Still asleep?" he nodded in Diana's direction.

"Yeah, she was stirring a bit."

"How you holding up?"

Shit! He didn't need Peter's scrutiny now. He knew if he said anything but the truth, it would send him into investigation mode.

"I'm tired. I think I'm going to pack it in for tonight, go home and go to bed."

"If you want to talk..."

"Thanks, maybe later."

"Even though it was a justified shooting, the Bureau still has to investigate. We will be meeting with OPR tomorrow."

"I expected as much, right. I'll be there in the morning, Peter. Thanks."

Peter didn't know what to make out of what he had just seen, as Neal walked away. Yeah, things had been tense between them, but he thought progress was being made. He ran his fingers through his hair, as he watched Diana sleep and reran the picture in his head of Neal backing away.

He decided to walk home. It was cold and damp, no wind. The Manhattan sky grey and unforgiving, winter was settling in. Up ahead he spied a mark. The man graciously accepted Neal's apology for bumping into him. He never felt him lift his cigarettes and lighter. It was a nasty habit he acquired in prison, the hot smoke singed his throat but it calmed nerves that were beyond raw. Two blocks later he darted into a liquor store. June was gone for the weekend. He was grateful for the solitude. He turned his cell phone off.

His eyes opened to the unwelcome sunlight pouring in through the open doors to the terrace. He stank of cheap whiskey. He tried sitting, that was his second mistake. The first was turning off his alarm. Jesus! It was Monday already, and he was late for his meeting with Peter and OPR.

He rushed through the doors of the elevator, carefully adjusting his tie, hoping he had scrubbed away any sign of his lost weekend. As he opened the door to the office, he was taken aback by the round of applause that greeted him. He was swarmed by staffers congratulating him on saving Diana and offering their support, in view of OPR agents awaiting him. He felt awkward and unsure. He'd grown accustomed to the stares laced with pity and revulsion. He had accepted being an outsider.

Special agent Russell was sitting at the head of the table, in the quiet conference room, waiting.

He was seated in Peter's chair. His interviews with Caffrey, Burke and Jones completed.

"We got anything on the dead guy?" Peter asked as he entered.

"Yeah, he's all over our database. Assault, armed robbery, rape and man one. A regular upstanding citizen. He was a last minute replacement for the pickup guy Caffrey met."

"So we good?"

"What do you know about Neal Caffrey?"

"Quite a bit. You're in my chair." Russell stood and pushed a file across the table in Peter's direction.

"I've read the file, Agent Burke. I know you wrote the book on Caffrey. But what do you really know about this guy?"

"I know he saved Agent Berrigan's life. I get it, there's history with Neal and OPR, but I have three agents testifying it was a good shoot, a justified shoot. What the hell is going on?"

"Take it easy, Burke. OPR has agreed to play ball. There won't be any charges brought against Caffrey. We went over everything with a fine tooth comb, forensics reviewed the

tape from the warehouse."

"So what's the problem?"

"Thing is, it's how he made the shot, that set off red flags."

"Educate me."

He pulled a schematic from his file case and laid it out on the table.

"Here's Caffrey, you, Jones, Agent Berrigan and the dead guy. This is a computer generated analysis of all the possible combinations of shots that could be taken to stop our assailant. You didn't have a clear shot, neither did Jones. The only one with a shot was Caffrey."

"OK, tell me something I don't know."

"These are the trajectories of the possible shots available to Caffrey to take out the assailant. They are ranked by degree of difficulty. As you can see there aren't many. Any one shot would have stopped him. This is where it gets interesting, now they rank according to lethality. There was only one shot that would kill the assailant, the kill shot. The odds of making that shot are less than you and me getting hit by lightening right now."

"What are you saying?"

"There are only a handful of men who could have made any of these, let alone the kill shot. I am talking highly trained, special forces. So how does your man make the shot? You get my drift. In the wrong hands, Neal Caffrey is a very dangerous man. Like I said, how well do you know Neal Caffrey?"

########

The next several weeks were quiet, routine. Diana had returned part time, she was still undergoing physical therapy and counseling. He, Jones and Neal had been assigned to desk duty. Standard Bureau policy, when a shooting was involved. It gave him a better chance to observe Neal up close, and he didn't like what he saw. He was frequently late for work, eyes red rimmed and glassy. He reeked of cigarette smoke and overpriced cologne. His hands shook, his gait often unsteady. He had put off seeing the counselor, with one excuse after another. He was a different man.

He knew he had to confront him, but they hadn't been on good terms for awhile. Neal had refused his dinner invitations. Even a direct call from Elizabeth went unanswered. He was most skittish around Diana, always managing to duck out when she entered the room.

He was standing on the landing outside his office, waiting. Neal was predictably late; he tried to slip into his desk.

"Neal, in my office."

"Morning Peter, what's up?"

"That's what I'd like to know."

"I'm sorry; I've been a little behind on my paper work. I promise I'll get caught up by the end of the day."

"That's not what this is about, and you know it. You've been smoking, you smell of alcohol. You've been avoiding everyone."

His heartbeat accelerated and his chest tightened. He felt trapped.

"I just need a little more time," he smiled.

"Have you made an appointment with the counselor?" Peter was undeterred.

"I will, I'll do it now." he made to leave.

Peter slid the file across the table.

"It's an analysis of the shooting, Neal. According to the FBI forensic ballistic team, only a handful of trained marksmen could have made that shot. How did you?"

He was beginning to shake; he shoved his hands into his pockets.

"I guess just dumb luck." he smiled more convincingly he hoped.

"Just stop it Neal. Stop with the evasions and double talk. Tell me the truth. Where did you learn to shoot like that, could you have taken this guy out without killing him?"

"I already told you, but of course you don't believe me. What do you want to hear, Peter?"

His goal changed from avoidance to survival. Chaos prevailed internally; he was losing his battle for self control, his battle against the ferocious anger building in him.

"How about a straight answer?"a frustrated Peter hurled at him, moving in close to his struggling partner.

"How's this for a straight answer. Yes! I killed him, me! I blew his goddamed brains out. Not you, not Jones, not all your precious protocols and your by the rule bullshit!"

He was pacing the small office now, his sights set on the man in front of him.

"You make me sick with your sanctimonious crap. There's your truth. I can be a man or a con. Right? Because men don't lie, just cons. Did you lie to me about Kate, Peter? Did you lie to me about the music box, Peter? Did you lie to me about Fowler, Peter?"

"Yes, but..."

"Just yes or no, Peter. You want it both ways, you lie when it suits you. Oh, that's right, you were protecting me. Like you're doing now? Nothing to do with this file and the FBI's concern over my shooting skill, he looked down at the file on the table. Con or man, Peter; which are you?" he slid the file back across the table.

Peter flinched at his words. A storm was gathering in Neal Caffrey.

"You don't know what you're saying, Neal"

But he did and Peter knew it.

"Kate paid in blood for your precious truth and Diana would have too. You know what, fuck you Peter. Fuck You!"

It was as if he had mainlined a pure mix of adrenaline and rage. It was coursing through his veins, unchecked. Flooded with every time he had to stuff down his feelings, choke back his anger. Every lie, every performance and practiced pose, every impersonation came crashing down around the polished facade.

He wanted to run, but he couldn't. He was remembering. He remembered each time he cowered in his room as his mother sobbed. He remembered each time he was pushed down in dark prison hallways and ground into oblivion. He remembered each time he was betrayed by his so called friends in the name of what was best for him. Each time a woman used him and lied that she loved him. Each time he had given everything, risked everything and it still wasn't fucking enough. Suddenly, he didn't feel like a nothing, like a coward, his fear was gone.

"What's gotten into you?" Peter pleaded.

He was far away now, in a void rapidly exploding outward. He didn't answer. He turned to walk away. Peter reached out and grabbed his arm.

"Get off me!" he yelled with such ferocity Peter took a step backward. He lashed out like a cornered animal, wildly connecting with his target. But the second blow was a deliberate upper cut to the jaw that staggered Peter sending him to his knees, bloodied.

He didn't know where he was at first. His body was numb, inert, without will.

His eyes opened and he could make out Jones and Hughes's faces. They were holding him down. He could hear voices talking to him. He closed his eyes again. He saw his mother staggering, swaying. He saw his father with his hands around her throat. He saw himself as a boy, arms wrapped around his middle, rocking back and forth quietly saying; _I'm__ not you, I'm_ _not you__, I'm not you._

He could make out sounds now; he could hear Peter and Hughes talking in low anxious voices.

"It's your call Peter. I know Neal has been through a lot lately. Whatever you decide, it stays here."

"Thanks Reese. I just pushed too hard. I should have seen this coming. I called Dr. Sullivan; she's willing to see him now, if he'll cooperate."

"Peter, he has no choice. Not after what I just witnessed. Pull together the paperwork, if you're up to it." The older man looked at his battered friend and his troubled partner with concern.

Peter turned back to his office when he felt a slight tug at his sleeve.

"Diana, you OK? I am sorry you had to see all that."

"I'm OK boss. Do you think I might have a word with Neal, before Dr. Sullivan gets here?"

"I don't know Diana, he's not himself. He's really unstable. He could be dangerous in his present condition," he touched his split lip and bruised jaw for emphasis. I've seen how he avoids you."

"He saved my life. I'm not afraid. Please boss."

He was disoriented still, moving between past and present. He came around again, this time to the sound of Diana's voice, calm and reassuring.

"Neal, can you hear me? Come on, sit up. I got him Jones. Give us a minute?"

"Diana?" He reached out and tenderly touched the still mottled bruising along her neck and jaw. "Are you all right?"

"I will be, thanks to you. Dr. Sullivan is on her way to see you, she's good. You should talk to her."

"I can't, not after what I've done. I'm so sorry for this, his fingers lingered on her face. I wish I could have stopped it."

"I know," she looked deep into his eyes. Listen to me, Neal. I'm glad you killed him. I wanted him dead too." She squeezed his hand as life flowed back into his body and Dr. Sullivan appeared at the door.

They were seated in the interrogation room off to the back of the unit. Neal sat quietly, his hands folded in his lap.

"Tell me what happened?"

"I kind of lost it."

"Do you have any idea why?"

"I killed a man. I shot him in the head."

"How was that?"

"It was easy to do. Apparently I have a natural talent for it."

"And is that what's troubling you?"

"No"

"Then what is?"

"It felt good."

The end.


	2. Chapter 2

Kill Shot Redux 3

**Author's Note:**

_I planned Kill Shot __ori__gi__nally__ as a one __shot,__ pun not intended. Then I was pleasantly surprised by the interest to keep it going. You guys got to me. I'__ve loved getting you're f__eedback and suggestions. Thanks Extremebandgeek, Pechika, Roxanacleo and SherlockXHolmes 23__ for your__terrific ideas.__ And a __special__ thank you to the amazing Ultracape, for giving me one of the most thoughtful and insightful critiques I've ever gotten. I wish all of you struggling writers out t__here could have that opportunity. I hope to pay it forward one day, with a great story. While this may not be that story, I hope it provides a bit of closure._

He didn't have the shot. Sweat was dripping into his eyes, blinding him. His throat clenched. Protocol says never surrender your gun, but he had no choice. He's dizzy for a second. Tries to clear his head, focus. The man's cold empty eyes were looking into him, like he knew him. He was smiling as he pushed her to her knees.

"Peter, help me! Please."

"No, wait!" he screamed.

The man's fingers curled around the hilt of the knife as he swung the blade down, cutting her throat open. Blood sprayed and pumped from her body. She clutched her throat helplessly as it poured through her fingers and down her shirt. Pints of blood. She slumped forward.

"Peter! Peter! Wake up baby! You're dreaming again."

He couldn't breathe. He was gasping for air, fear screaming through his brain. His eyes wide, he tried to blink back the images in his head.

"It's OK honey. I got you. Breathe. That's it, in and out."

"Blood. There was so much blood, El. I couldn't…."

"It's alright honey." But she knew it wasn't. She cradled him in her arms, running her hands along his back, trying to smooth the tension rippling through his corded muscles. She laid his head against her chest, pulling him in closer. Her eyes filled with tears, as he shuddered in her arms.

"I 'm sorry, I am so sorry. You've been through so much already," he whispered.

"Don't be sorry. I don't want you ever to be sorry for what you're feeling. But I do need you to talk to someone, honey. Peter, you can't go on like this. I can't handle seeing you this way and not being able to help you. Promise me you'll talk to someone.

WCWCWCWC

"What were you thinking before you took the shot?"

"He was holding her neck so tight, squeezing so hard... her feet lifted off the ground. I could see it in his eyes, he liked hurting people."

"Go on."

"He wouldn't kill her right away. He was getting comfortable. I let him. It gave me the advantage, time to line up the shot. I waited."

"Then what happened?"

"You know what happened. Why do we have to keep going over this?" his heart started to drum in his chest, gut tightened.

"It's happening isn't it? You're feeling the panic. It won't go away, Neal; unless you deal with this."

"You've been saying that for weeks. What do you want to hear from me!"

She was silent, her default position whenever he was about to make a flaming ass hat of himself. He knew she was right. He laid his head back against the chair, closed his eyes and willed himself to be calm.

"I remember the feel of the gun in my hand, my finger against the trigger, the sound of the bullet leaving the barrel. He was dead before he hit the floor. I was sure of it. Then it hit me, the rush. Like I feel when a con goes perfectly, but cranked up 100 times over."

"OK, then."

He sat forward with his head in his hands and took a long steadying breath.

"Most of my childhood I thought my father was a hero. I also thought he was dead. Mom lied to me, he found me when I was a teenager."

"So she wanted to protect you?"

"I guess. She equated security with happiness. But I wanted to know him. I started meeting him secretly. It was the beginning of my cons. I figured she lied to me, it was only fair I lie to her."

"Go on."

"My father was a hard man. He came back from the war changed. He tried to pick up his life, got married, had a kid, joined the police force and did OK. It didn't last. He drank a lot and it made him mean."

He was remembering the last time he saw him, the menace in his eyes. No one crossed his old man.

"He was also a thief and a liar, not the best career builder for law enforcement. But you could always count on the truth when he was plastered. He told me once; the only thing he was ever good at was killing."

He went silent, stared at his hands. He couldn't will the shaking away.

"His first night on patrol over there, he told me how he had blown a guy's head off. He was five hundred yards out. He got better in time. He showed me how to shoot, said I was a natural at it."

"So you're thinking like father like son?"

"Thief, liar ….killer; tell me, you're not?"

WCWCWCWC

Elizabeth was sleeping, it was five am. She looked peaceful lying in their bed. He found his shirt, his shoes and slipped out. He hated lying to her.

The shooting range was empty.

"Hey buddy, you're early."

"Couldn't sleep."

"Usual set up?"

"Yeah, thanks."

He looked down the range to the target behind the lines etched in the concrete floor. He took a breath and fired. Fired again and again. Three bullets perfectly centered. He didn't need to look. He'd made that shot more times than he could remember. Bullets follow physical rules. Inertia, velocity, gravity…. these were concepts he understood, absolutes.

It wasn't his nature to panic. He had always been steady. FBI training taught him to be calm and analytical, to embrace the rules he found comfort in. The rules made you safe. Peter Burke, youngest agent to lead up the White Collar Division. Success story. His father told him he could do anything, be anything. He missed him.

Ally, friend, husband and protector, roles that fit him like a glove. They all felt foreign to him now. What would his father think of him now? Lying to his wife, letting down his team, putting Neal's freedom at risk. The young conman had placed his future in his hands, hands that now wouldn't stop shaking.

If Caffrey had stayed in the van like he told him, Dianna would be dead. If Caffrey had played by the rule they wouldn't have gotten Elizabeth back alive. He wasn't Neal Caffrey, but he wasn't Peter Burke either now... Maybe Neal was right. He didn't dare look at him, for fear of seeing the loathing in his eyes he must surely feel for him.

In the scramble of his brain, his father's voice was faint. His palms began to sweat and he felt his chest tighten.

"Hey buddy. You OK?"

"Yeah."

"Gonna get a smoke, need anything before I go?"

He needed to re establish control. Fight this.

"Yeah, move the target out farther."

A brand new target was placed at the extreme end of the range. He lined up the shot, gripping the automatic in both hands, arms straight, knees bent, aim centered. He fired. This time he looked. He couldn't take his eyes away. A crimson stain was spreading outward from the canvas target's core. The smell of blood filled the room as the crimson spread across the floor toward him. Panic mixed with disbelief and horror. He was swallowed in a wash of fear, unable to move to think. This couldn't be real.

"Hey fella," the night duty guard approached the shaken agent.

Peter jumped as if he'd seen a ghost. His face white and waxen, he slumped against the counter.

"If you're going to hurl..."

"What?"

He stared past the man at some distant destination.

"If you're going to be sick..."

He closed his eyes for a moment, fell to his knees and retched.

WCWCWCWC

Dr. Sullivan suggested a mild tranquilizer during the worst of the panic attacks. The shakes were really bad then. But, he preferred his pharmaceuticals bottled. He poured a glass of wine and stepped out onto the balcony. The sky was overcast and the Merlot helped brace him against the chilly night air. He was lonely. Mozzie had become invisible. He hated the look of pity in June's eyes and well Sarah, that was done before it could get started. He was an outsider. It wasn't the absolute condemnation he faced earlier, but it hurt. He closed his eyes.

He'd saved Dianna, brought Elizabeth home, wasn't that expiation enough for his crimes. What did he have to do to convince Peter? How many more acts of reparation would it take? He wanted to stay on the path he'd chosen. He needed Peter. Dammit, he needed Peter to help him. It shattered him to think his friend had given up on him and no amount of pharmaceuticals could change that.

His cell phone buzzed. It was Elizabeth.

"Elizabeth Burke called last night. She wants me to talk to Peter."

"How did that make you feel?"

"Hopeful. Ever since I cashed in my crazy ticket, Peter's been avoiding me. Can't say I blame him."

"You think you went crazy?"

"Don't you? I don't even remember hitting Peter."

"You killed a man. How should you have felt?"

"Not good about it."

"You didn't look so good when I saw you."

"I get that you don't judge people, that it's part of the process. And God knows I've had just about as much judging as I can take these past months, but I blew a man's brains out and it was a rush. Not exactly a recipe for mental health."

"Like father like son?" she asked.

"It was your comparison."

"But you felt it fit."

"Until all of this, I would have said I was nothing like my old man. He had big plans for me. He wanted to mold me into a carbon copy of him."

"Is that why you left?"

"And never looked back. I became a master of evasion. I got really good at hiding, getting away."

"You got away, but did you get free?"

He fell silent. Sullivan had struck a chord.

"He didn't want a son. I was like a vanity plate on one of his fancy cars. All shiny and new, until I wasn't. He didn't take well to rebellion. It was his way or no way. You follow the rules or else."

"Or else, what?"

"No one crossed him and for good reason. He was ruthless and powerful."

Ruthlessness was much a part of his old man as the blood that flowed through him. The same blood pulsating in his veins.

"The only power I had was to deny him."

"To not be him?"

"Something like that. I thought I could change who I was, outrun my DNA. But in the warehouse, when I pulled the trigger, I came face to face with my past. I am my father's son."

"Yes, you are; but you're not him. You said you're father was good at killing. Took a certain pride in it. You wouldn't be here if you were good with killing that man. Don't get me wrong, we need to understand what that rush was all about Neal. But I think it's safe to say, you're not your father."

"You sound like Peter. He didn't believe I was a prisoner of my DNA either. He thinks I can change, at least he thought I could change. He can't even stand to look at me now."

"How does that make you feel?"

"Sad …really sad. I was doing this second story job once, my partner was supposed to be waiting ….. Long story short, he didn't show. I fell trying to escape, two stories, tore a gash in my side. I couldn't exactly go to the nearest hospital, so I ended up suturing it closed myself."

"Sounds pretty awful."

"It was. It hurt like hell. That's how it feels now, when Peter won't even look at me," tears glistened in his eyes.

"You've sutured your own wounds for a long time Neal. Sounds like Peter wanted to be there for you. He saw something in you your father couldn't. He saw you."

He bowed his head and fought the tears stinging his cheeks.

"I miss him. I miss Peter believing in me. I tried to change, I did; but he won't believe me."

"Then tell him until he does. Make him believe you."

"I am afraid I've exhausted all my credibility with him."

She was looking at him with that Sullivan look.

"Maybe you've exhausted your credibility in yourself. You believe you're your father and then you are. You believe you can't change and then you don't. There are no easy answers Neal."

Without the comfort of that illusion, a chill went down his spine.

"Do some people need killing?"

"You'll have to answer that question for yourself. Time is up, we'll talk tomorrow."

WCWCWCWC

He agreed to meet Peter at the café down the block; he owed it to Elizabeth and himself. He looked around as he walked in. The place was almost empty. A young couple at the bar deep in conversation, a guy in the back deep in his espresso. Peter was uncharacteristically late.

The coffee was good. He looked up as Peter slid into the chair across from him. He looked like a man who needed a good night's sleep.

"What's on your mind?" he said flatly.

Peter avoided looking at him and talked to the table instead. They were accustomed to looking at each other, face to face. Something had derailed that, or someone. He flinched at the thought. This wasn't the outcome he'd imagined, wishing he hadn't come. But then something flickered across Peter's face, not anger so much as sadness mixed with equal parts fear. He had to commit.

"How are you?"

"You didn't set up this meeting for small talk, Neal. I know you, what do you want?"

"Elizabeth called and asked me to talk to you. Peter you've got to talk to me sometime. I'm sorry…"

"She's angry," he continued to look down.

"I wouldn't say angry so much as worried," Neal offered.

The waitress brought Peter's coffee. He took a refill.

"I've been lying to her," he ran his finger around the rim of the cup.

He never thought he would hear that from Peter Burke.

"About what?" Neal asked tentatively.

"She thinks I should go to counseling."

"Join the club," he smiled.

"Is it helping you? I'm sorry I shouldn't…."

"No, it's OK. I am giving up being my father. The withdrawal symptoms are a bitch," he smiled, finally catching Peter's gaze.

What he saw was troubling. He looked wounded, lost. Something had a hold on him.

"I've been going to the shooting range."

"Why? You have one of the best shooting records in the Unit?

"It wasn't good enough to protect Diana, to keep you from having to kill a man," his voice trailed off.

"Is that what this is about? It wasn't your fault. It wasn't anyone's fault but the guy who took Diana."

"I can't sleep. I keep having this dream. Thing is, I can't tell if I'm dreaming or awake anymore. I was at the range, and there was blood, all this blood. It seemed so real."

He gripped the coffee mug as if it were a life raft.

"The rules always made you safe. I can't make anyone safe. Not Elizabeth, Diana…you."

Peter's eyes went blank. He'd been so caught up in his own misery; he hadn't seen his friend suffering. He was going off the rails and it made his heart ache. He'd do anything to help him.

The waitress reappeared.

"It's almost closing guys; can I bring you anything else?"

"No, we're good," he smiled. But they weren't.

"Take your time. I've got tons to put up."

Peter had returned to his coffee. He seemed to be running something through his head.

"Peter, I had no idea..." he reached out and placed his hand on his. Peter pulled back, startled; his face a mask of fear and confusion.

Shaken by his reaction, he edged back in his chair and tried to focus. It was then he saw the man. The espresso guy from the back. He was standing at the counter, scanning the room. He was nervous, sweating. His eyes were wide, their focus constantly changing as if he were speculating. Not good. Not good at all. He knew that look. There were only a few possibilities for that behavior and he didn't like any of them. Before he could react to what he was seeing, the man had taken hold of the waitress. She let out a muffled cry.

Damn it! This couldn't be happening, not now he thought.

Peter blinked in rapid succession. His face changed. He turned his head in the direction of the man, raked his hand over his cheek and drew in a breath. He removed the safety from his gun.

Seconds too late he realized Peter was reliving the events of the warehouse. By then he had moved across the room his gun by his side.

"Look man, don't be a hero. I don't want any trouble. I just want the money," the man shouted.

"Let the girl go."

Peter's hands were shaking so bad, the first shot went wide. The bullet ricocheted against the far wall.

"I said let the girl go."

His grip grew steadier as he advanced on the man. His gun leveled at his head. He let the girl go.

"OK, OK! I'm not armed man."

"Put your hands in the air. Get on your knees. Do it!"

'Don't shoot me," the man cringed.

The sound of the shot till ringing in his ears he caught up to Peter. He was two feet away from him.

Peter wheeled around. His gun leveled squarely at his partner's chest, dead center. Neal took a step back instinctively, put his hands in the air. Then after a second's delay, his eyes wide and his heart in his throat he said.

"Peter, it's me, Neal." He tried to calm his voice.

"Get out of the way!"

"I'm not moving Peter."

"I said, Back Off!"

"Sorry Peter, I'm staying here. Put the gun down, please." He took a tiny step forward.

Peter didn't reply. He didn't move. His finger trembled on the trigger.

"Give me the gun Peter, this isn't you."

His head was spinning and his vision was blurred, adrenaline was burning him up. He couldn't clear his head.

"I was supposed to keep her safe."

The gun barrel moved again. He placed it against the man's head. Squeezed the trigger halfway. His hand was damp. He was tipping over the edge.

"You like hurting people, don't you." He looked down at the man.

"Dude, he's crazy, the man was staring up at Neal. His mouth opening and closing. Do something! He's going to kill me."

"For God's sake Peter, don't do this. He edged closer. Let me help you."

The man on the ground began to whimper and shake.

Neal kept his gaze on Peter. His blue eyes searching his face. He had to bridge the distance between them. Reach him.

"Listen to me. You told me…. "he caught his breath. You told me you can't tell if you're dreaming or awake. You're seeing something, but it's not real. You have to believe me."

"I don't know…," Peter struggled to speak.

"Tell me."

"The rules keep you safe."

"They do Peter. You kept me safe. You saved me more times than I can tell you. Let me help you. Trust me."

"I want to... "

"Give me the gun."

He saw a dawning comprehension on his face as he seemed to recognize him, maybe for the first time in a long while.

He gave Neal the gun and staggered back toward the bar. He was tired, so very tired. His knees buckled. Neal moved forward, caught him and gently lowered him onto a stool.

"I'm scared Neal."

He pulled his friend and partner to his chest, wrapped his arms around him and whispered, "So am I, Peter. So am I."

WCWCWCWC

She stayed awake until sunrise to protect him from the dark. The last several nights were better. The nightmares were on the wane. She was grateful to Neal. He looked peaceful lying next to her. He was dreaming.

"_Neal, stop squirming, you're going to turn over the boat. You can't catch a fish without bait."_

"_You didn't tell me the bait was alive. Oh my God, could this smell any worse."_

"_I can't believe you've never been fishing. OK, the first rule is..."_

_The end._


End file.
